


The snake in the garden (But oh, the apple was divine)

by Meatball42



Category: Original Work
Genre: Espionage, F/F, Lesbian Character of Color, Modern Era, POV Lesbian Character, Sexual Identity, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 12:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12298890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meatball42/pseuds/Meatball42
Summary: The first time you see her is when you’re moving into the crappy apartment building that’s going to serve as your cover. You’re just an office assistant, making coffee, taking calls, and installing spyware on the whole office’s hard drives. Nothing to see here.





	The snake in the garden (But oh, the apple was divine)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alexandria (heartfullofelves)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartfullofelves/gifts).



The first time you see her is when you’re moving into the crappy apartment building that’s going to serve as your cover. You’re just an office assistant, making coffee, taking calls, and installing spyware on the whole office’s hard drives. Nothing to see here.

 _She’s_ something to see, though. Long, rich brown hair, held back from her face by a red band that matches her lipstick- adorable. Tall, with dusky skin and delicate eyelashes. Her clothes say ‘young professional’, but when she holds the door for you as you lug a box of books inside, she says, “Howdy, neighbor,” in an accent you don’t know.

You manage to say “Hi,” half-turning back, and nearly trip over your own feet. She smiles sweetly, then exits onto the sunny sidewalk.

Jerome, one of the field agents who offered to help you move in- “You gotta provide beer, though, girlie,” he’s told you in a faded brogue, winking- props a hand on the elevator to laugh at you. “Ahaha!” he chortles. “I guess we know your weak spot, then! Yer partial to the lovely ladies, I see!”

You stick your tongue out at him and laugh when the elevator opens and he stumbles.

This wasn’t part of your plan, but you’ll take it.

 

 

The next time you see her- the time you really meet her- is after a rough day. There was a big op going down, and the sheltered Vermont girl you’re supposed to be was nervous, anxious, until the new friends you’ve made checked in safely. You got a text on the bus ride back to your apartment on a burner phone, letting you know that the bug you placed in the supervisory agent’s office is functioning, new instructions at the next dead drop. You texted back, _‘Thanks auntie! Send me pictures of baby Madison! I miss her already!_ ’ with a few emojis for good measure.

You’re putting your phone away as your step into the elevator, and the front door opens up. You hold the door, and the ‘lovely lady’ you saw the day you moved in thanks you. She hits the button for the floor two above yours.

You stare at the door, near holding your breath. It’s not that you’ve never seen an attractive woman before, but it’s the first time you’ve been in a position to speak to one in America. You like your real job, and letting it be known you don’t really like men- outside of a cover!- is a fast way to lose it.

“I like your shoes,” you say, and barely manage not to squeeze your eyes shut. _‘I like your shoes?’_ Why not just say _‘What sexy legs you have, please let me caress them as I kneel at your feet?”_

“Thanks,” she says, glancing down and sticking one out. Her pencil skirt hitches up another inch and you gulp, keeping your eyes locked on the mulberry heel. “Thrift store steal.”

You don’t know what that means, but you can extrapolate. However, it doesn’t help you come up with something to say. You smile nervously.

“I’m Elena,” she says, offering her hand. You reach out to shake it- too fast, of course- and her hand is cool and her handshake crisp. You’re probably wet-palmed and limp in comparison, but she holds on for an extra beat, squinting at your face, her bright red lips turned up at the corners. “You just moved in, right? How ya been doin’?”

 _‘I’m fine,’_ you want to say, but reality sets back in. There’s a camera in the elevator, and probably a bug on your person. “I’m-” you hesitate, “tired. Work was crazy today.”

“I feel you,” Elena says, rolling her eyes. “What do you do?”

“I’m an intern at the State Department,” you answer, giving her the cover story your cover identity was assigned by your current workplace. When her eyes get wide, you smile. “Just the passport office. There’s a backlog, and we’re understaffed.”

“Wow.” Elena looks impressed. She hitches her purse over her shoulder, just as the elevator dings for your floor.

Your confidence, unwavering while you played your part, withers in the face of a normal conversation. “Well, I-” you stumble.

“You want to come watch crappy TV with me?” Elena asks. She smiles, tiling her head, and the effect is that you’re left speechless with the cuteness. “We can order in.”

You have a report to write up to hand off at the dead drop in two days, and a few pages of confidentiality protocols to memorize for your fake job. She notices your hesitation and pouts, sticking one plump lip out, and your resistance crumbles.

“Uh- sure,” you say breathily. Your voice cracks, your cheeks light up, and her gorgeous grin widens in amusement. “I’ll, uh-” you step back out of the elevator and it starts to close. “What number are you!”

“618,” she calls, laughing, just as the door slides shut.

You’re floating as you shower and change into more comfortable clothes, blowdry your hair, and grab your wallet. You make yourself walk up the stairs- it won’t do to seem like you were running.

Of course, your cheeks go bright red when she comes to the door with her hair all frizzy and tied up and wearing a button-up shirt and either no pants, or very short shorts. Her legs are just as sexy as they were in the pencil skirt.

You step forward, but she’s leaning against the doorframe, in the way. “You know, you didn’t even give me your name,” she says. Her voice is sultry, her accent stronger, and you gulp. “Now I could never let a stranger into my apartment, no sir.”

“I’m Anne,” you choke out, “Anne- Kanin.” You shiver, and you’re not sure it was because of the near slip-up, or because Elena just looked you up and down.

She opens the door further and you step into a tight hallway. There’s light coming from the other end, but the hallway is long and dim. She pushes the door behind you, but she doesn’t move, and there’s only a few inches of space between the two of you. You have to look up an inch to meet her eyes.

“Anne.” Her voice is throaty and quiet. You step back unsure, and she steps forward. You step back again and hit the door, and she steps closer again. “I don’t wanna assume anything. But the way you look at me…”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, staring at the floor. Your cheeks burn, this time in humiliation. You clench your eyes shut. You should have known better, even here.

“Aw, baby girl, no, look at me.” She tips your chin up with one long finger, then uses it to brush your hair back. “You’re just the sweetest thing, ain’tcha? You like girls, right?”

You nod, breath coming short.

“You like me?” Elena murmurs, tilting her head the way she did before.

You nod again, starry-eyed.

“Think I could give you a little kiss, or would that scare you off?”

You blink several times in quick succession. Your look at her red lips, then back at her eyes. “Yes,” you whisper.

“Yes to which?” she teases, touching your cheek.

“Yes,” you plead, tilting your head up. You can feel your hands shaking by your sides, and you hope she doesn’t notice.

“Oh darling,” she says, and tips her head down to yours.

The touch on your lips sends your heart so fast it hurts in your neck. You can smell-taste her lipstick, it makes her mouth glide over yours in a way that should be off-putting but instead is- is-

“You’re shakin', baby,” Elena whispers against your lips. She’s smiling, her eyes looking into yours so warm.

“I- I’m sorry-” you repeat, but you lean forward again anyway.

She presses you gently against the door, her hands briefly touching your hips before one touches your hair and strokes down the side of your face. You shudder and your hands fly up to hold onto her arms, in case you should float away.

When you break apart, you’re trembling all through your body, but your smile is radiant. She laughs at you, but it only makes you smile more.

“What do you like?” she asks, taking your hand in her long cool one and pulling you down the hall. “Chinese? Mexican?”

“Anything,” you say, voice surprisingly level. You call upon your training and manage to focus. “Whatever you like.”

“Girl after my own heart.” Elena smiles at you and you smile back helplessly.

 

 

When you go back home that night, you have acquired lots of new intel. Elena is in her early thirties and newly hired at a finance firm on the other side of the river from your office. She grew up in southern Texas, which explains her accent. Luckily, it doesn’t seem unusual that you didn’t recognize it immediately. She dates only women, and says she manages to attract a lot of ‘baby gays’.

“Like me,” you said quietly. You’re not sure if you should feel ashamed.

She leaned forward on the couch to kiss you on the cheek, close to your ear. Your breath hitched. “Yeah, like you. But I think it’s cute.” You had to smile back.

Elena’s mother came from Mexico, but their family is American. She has a brother in the military. She loves running, competitive cooking shows, and the Texas Rangers.

She thinks you are Anne Kanin, from outside Montpelier, Vermont. She thinks you grew up on a farm. She thinks you like knitting and baking and that you moved to D.C. because you want to be a state senator one day. She thinks she likes you.

Your stomach hurts, knowing that you like Elena so much but that she would not like you, if she knew anything about who you really are. You lock your apartment door and sweep the rooms, checking your weapons stashes and your go-bag. You touch the corner of your mouth where some of her lipstick lingers.

 

 

At your fake job, they find the bug in the head agent’s office. You are questioned along with most of the staff. You play your part well.

You have not been here long enough, are not trusted enough, to try and lead them awry, but when you report it on your burner phone, you are told not to worry.

The next day, another of the administrative staff does not come in for work. You are told to cover some of her assignments, including one or two relevant to your agency.

You go home and write a report for the dead drop, and then go upstairs to complain to Elena that they’re heaping more work on you and you don’t know how you’ll find time in the day to do it all. She coos over you and asks if there’s anything she can do to help you relax.

You turn red all over, and she knows you mean, yes please.

 

 

One night, as you are leaving her apartment, you shyly ask Elena if she would go out to a restaurant across town with you on Friday. She hesitates, and you hiccup.

“We don’t have to! I just thought, you must get tired of take-out,” you backpedal, but she shakes her head, hair swinging.

“I’d love to,” she says firmly. “I just don’t want you to break the bank for me, sweetheart.”

You recall the Google reviews for the restaurant run the conversion rates again in your head. Is the place outside your cover story’s budget? “I- I won’t,” you say, desperately wanting, but uncertain if you’ve made an error, the kind that could make Elena not want to see you again-

Or give you away to the people listening. That is the most important. Of course.

She bites her lip. “I’ll go, if you let me pay half. This is the twenty-first century, right?”

“Sure,” you give in, relieved. “Of course.” You step closer, and she holds your face in her hands for a good night kiss. It stretches longer, and your hands are pulled like magnets to her waist, then up-

Down the hall, someone exits an apartment. You step back quickly, glancing down- but they’re locking their door, not looking up.

Elena gives you a sad smile and your heart sinks. “I’ll see you in a few days, Anne.” She kisses her fingers and pretends to blow at you, and luckily closes her door before you end up trying to catch it or something terrible like that.

Her long nails have American flags somehow painted on them.

 

 

Something happens half the world away. Inside, you are pleased, proud. On your face, you must show shock, fear, horror. The office is buzzing, the field agents striding around with mouths tight and eyes dark.

Jerome tells you to stay at your desk. “It’s gonna be a long night. Stay by the phone,” he says, guiding you by your elbow with his eyes locked on the conference room down the hall. You brought him coffee and a tart bought at the bakery down the street when you handed off a thumbdrive, or he wouldn’t have even noticed you.

Everything is going according to plan. If things proceed on schedule, you might be back home before the new year.

You zone out at your desk, mind racing, but luckily everyone is too distracted to notice.

 

 

You’re staying over in Elena’s bed for the third time this week. You’ve gotten used to her smells, the softness of her bed and her blankets, the warmth and weight of having her beside you at night. Even when you just sleep, it’s the best place you can think of to be. And when you don’t just sleep… you think her bed must be Heaven.

Tonight, she curls around you and you sigh in bliss, tucking your head into her neck and lipping at the soft skin there. She hums her pleasure and her nails tighten just a hint on your back.

“My lease is up soon,” she murmurs.

“I’ve got a few more months,” you whisper distractedly, then start licking at the spot she likes.

“ _Oh_ , Anne- stop that, I’m serious.” Elena nudges you away and you freeze, cool prickles spreading over your skin, but she doesn’t look unhappy or scared. “I know we haven’t been together that long, but… would you wanna look for somewhere with me?”

You stare, mouth falling lax, and her cheeks darken. Look for somewhere, a place to live, with Elena. Together.

One bed, where you could sleep with her every night. A kitchen, where you could cook and share every meal. One bathroom, where you could give her all the space for her multitude of hair and beauty supplies because you only have three or four bottles. Decorations that you pick out together… maybe a pet… maybe…

Maybe she could accidentally find the guns you have in the backs of drawers and in the coat closet. Maybe her family would visit, and yours never would. Maybe one of them would know something about Vermont, or America, that you don’t. Maybe your agency would come to find out why you were living with a woman who wasn’t a target.

Maybe she would become a target. Maybe you would.

“Maybe,” you say weakly.

“It’s not a big deal,” she lies. You don’t even need training to notice. She shifts onto her back and stares at the ceiling. “Just thinkin’ about the future.”

“I… I want that,” you whisper. She remains silent, as you try and think of a way not to lie to her, again. “I would love that. I just- my family…”

“It’s fucking twenty-seventeen,” she says angrily, but she’s angry because she’s not arguing, not really.

You turn on your side and tuck your face against her shoulder and wish, and wish, and wish.

 

 

You’ve been undercover for nearly a year when plan the plan changes.

Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe this was the plan all along, and no one told you. It’s about as likely.

You get a text on your burner phone, no cute code. _‘Takeover. Get the high ground.’_ You collect the weapons you’ve stashed around your cubicle and head to the Director’s office. It’s late afternoon, early evening. The day shift is gone and the night shift is light, one of the dinner shifts rotated out of the office to the bistros nearby or down in the break room. You enter the outer office, step around the personal assistant’s desk, and when she starts to stand in confusion, you slice her throat. She can’t cry out, but she lets out a breathy gurgling sound and you shove your knee behind her thigh, twisting her body to shove her behind her own desk in one motion.

You look up: the door you entered is glass, but no one is looking from the cubicle farm outside.

You open the door to the Director’s office. The man is sitting behind his desk. In front of it, turning to face you, is Jerome. His eyes widen as he sees the blood on your chest.

“Anne, what happened?” he demands, hands nowhere near his service weapon.

It’s a mistake. You put a bullet between his eyes.

The Director goes for his weapon. You put a bullet in his shoulder, aiming for the joint. He screams, and you lock the heavy wood door behind you and then pull out your phone.

_‘High ground secure.’_

 

 

Twelve hour later, the building is locked down. You are smuggled out; your agency will fake your death along with the bodies inside, burn your cover identity. You’re told to get some rest at a hotel a half hour out of town, then debrief in the morning. You say your have a few loose ends to tie up, and thankfully your success on the mission grants you some leeway.

You go to a drugstore with cameras and buy hair dye and a new, touristy outfit.

You hotwire a car and drive, and drive in the opposite direction as you were told.

You stop at a thrift store and find some steals, and throw out the tourist clothes and the hair dye. With the sun coming up over the horizon, you stop at a cheap motel. You cut your hair in the bathroom and catch a few hours of sleep.

When you wake up alive, you steal a new car and keep driving.

 

 

~ ~ * ~ ~

 

 

Four years later, you knock on the door of a small grey house in Queens. It has a small front yard with a little bench and a tree that blocks the view of the road from the front window. It’s on a quiet street with other small houses that look superficially different, in a neighborhood made up of such quiet streets.

Elena opens the door. The first thing you notice is that her hair is different, frizzy and tall. The second thing is that her lipstick is the same.

The third thing is that she is staring at you with eyes wide like silver dollars.

“ _Anne?_ ” she whispers, hand rising to cover her mouth. “But- they said you were-” She gasps, wet like a sob.

Her fingernails don’t have the flag on them anymore, but… you don’t want to be a liar any longer.

“My real name is Anastasya,” you say.

She blinks, and then again, and her hand comes down, mouth closing, and you can see that quick brain of hers turning.

“Let me come in, please,” you beg. You know you only have one chance to convince her, one chance at happiness. “Let me explain. If you want me to go after- I will.”

Her face is as pale as you’ve ever seen it, and her eyes are sharp like the knives you still carry with you. She steps back, opens the door, and her eyes cut through you.

You don’t know if she will choose to forgive you for what you did to her, or for what you did to her country, if she even could. But this is the land of the free, they say, and the brave. Perhaps there will be a place for you here. You can only try.


End file.
